The Six Angry Inches

Well, did my last post piss you off?

Did you bitterly admit to some things? Did you angrily refute my arguments? Feel disgusted over my business sense? Did you like my idea? Did you dream of making money? Well, to all these things, you can thank me for getting you to exercise your human right to an opinion, and an issue. Lord knows, if you read this fucking blog enough you'll admit that I have them and dole them out freely. Hey, consider who you are listening to: A homeless man. A divorcee. A man with no children. In constant isolation. Without money. Sometimes without food. Without any contact with the outside world unless it comes through the Internet. And wearing clothes from church giveaways.

And a fucking cupboard with spaghetti and NO sauce! Cereal with NO milk! Peanut butter and NO bread! And lettuce...just lettuce. THREE heads of lettuce. Just lettuce. Can't you see how frustrated I am? Can't you see how on the edge of the precipice that I am? Can't you see how desperate and angry I've become? I am the product of the lowest common denominator of this country. I am the creature that is being created everyday in the shadows and corners of this great nation that you turn your back on and ignore. You come up with your own erroneous and biased ideas of what and how we are. You have no clue. Trust me, you have no clue. Every conclusion that you have come to is wrong.

And on top of that, I have been through the greatest trauma that this continental nation has ever experienced. One of equal devastation to it was Pearl Harbor, but that was not on "Native Soil." Our event, being there, seeing it, smelling it, walking around it, has snapped a twig in my head that I have deluded myself over nine years that the damage done was not there. Oh yeah, I couldn't control my emotions because of it, which cost me my marriage, my job, my material belongings, and my dignity, but I blamed the string of bad turns instead...and never myself, where obviously the problem lie. If you smell like shit in New York, and you take a plane trip to Paris and Rome, and still smell shit...it's you. Stop buying plane tickets.

Was the Hobobob writing yesterday the same Hobobob that is writing you today? Honestly...I don't know. I don't know WHO the fuck Hobobob is. That's why I need some serious therapy I suppose. I find it somewhat humorous that some people, the very, very few, who see me in real life and are still willing to talk to me (to avoid the stigma of fraternizing with the homeless), are always puzzled as to who I am. They hold me to the carpet on many of the ideas that I have spouted on this blog, and are COMPLETELY surprised that I have no fucking clue what the fuck they're talking about. Yeah, it's happened a million times. "GeeZus, Hobobob, I was with you that day, and THAT never happened!" "FUK, Hobobob, the other day you said you hated the Hell out of that stuff!"

Yeah, I hope you've picked it up by now. When I get behind the keyboard and surf to this site, my brain is in FREEFORM mode. The eerie, dark side of me comes out. Portions of me that I have buried deep down inside. That part of me (and you) that is always held in check because, frankly it is definitely NOT Politically Correct. There will be adverse retribution for what you say and express...and like in my case...I disgust myself with the dark thoughts that I can actually come into contact with deep in the shitty portions of my brain.

But, in some frightening way, I can reach these corrupt places, and worst of all, I've already been dealt the hand of Adverse Retribution not initially earned. Really. I've been stripped of everything and then ejected from society. I can tell you, after I lost my apartment and all that I owned was packed up and put into storage for later auction and incineration, I THOUGHT that was the lowest point in my life...curling up on my first night on a park bench in a New York public park. THEN, a few days later, my clothing...MY CLOTHING, clothing that I had bought with MY money turned spotty and stank. I ended up in the Bowery Mission, stripping down and climbing into a public shower and tossing my clothes in a nearby garbage can. Later I will be given clothes, if they fit or matched or not, and sent off back into the street!

Well, I THOUGHT THAT was the lowest point in my life! Forced to wear someone else's clothes. Well, at least I had some belongings left in a plastic shopping bag that I kept with me. You know, the little things that were like delicate tendrils to me that still attached me to civilized society. Photos, paperwork, clean socks, underwear...blah, blah, blah. Just enough stuff to fit in a small bag. Stupid me, I had no clue that it looked like a bagful of garbage. I fell to sleep in Bryant Park and the Park Sanitation man came across it and deposited it in his trash can with wheels. Can you imagine my shock when I found it missing and ran amok climbing into garbage cans looking for it?

Oh, yeah...the funniest thing about this story...there are about five or six garbage collectors in Bryant Park, so I had to search five of six garbage cans, only to come up with nothing and being told that the trash is so great in the park that the men regularly bag and toss their garbage bags in a holding area for New York Sanitation. I begged the park management, like an idiot, to let me search the holding area. Amazingly I convinced them of the importance of this bag to me. Kindly they gave me access to the side of the New York Public Library. Once there I met with a literal mountain of black plastic garbage bags in a filthy, rat and cockroach infested niche against the building. My search ended there. Socks and pictures were not worth this.

Well, I THOUGHT THAT was the lowest point in my life! Until one night, curling up in the Hotel (For those of you just reading my blog and are unaware of my past, I am leaving a label at the end of this post so that it will take you to all of the stories involving it. Suffice it to say, it's where I lived in front of the Public Library) I closed my eyes for sleep, dimly aware of some kids playing around the pillars of the library like they were monkey bars in a children's park. In the morning I left for my day of roaming the city aimlessly, and ended up in the Business Library. I reached for my wallet to produce my library card and found my wallet stolen. My IDs, my Social Security Card, important business cards...blah, blah, blah, all gone. Now this might seem like a small loss to you, but let me tell you, once you've lost your ID and your paperwork backing them up, you lose your identity in this country.

In this county, if you can't prove who you are, you become a Threaten- ing Unknown Suspect. What does that mean? If you can't prove you are you, you are a suspect. Only the dishonest have no provable name, or have erased their identity. Usually because they have done something that has ran them afoul with the law, or with their husbands, or wives. Regardless, when you are outside and are approached by the police, and can't produce any of these two things: Keys or ID, you are a vagrant and locked up under the charge of Vagrancy. Why would a cop do this? To get your fingerprints in the system. This is the only way they can track you if you commit a crime, because frankly you can make up any name you chose. If your fingerprints aren't on record, they can't refute you.

Why do you think so many criminals and thugs have the acronym AKA after a number of names for themselves? They've tossed away their ID's a number of times, and rebuilt others. So...to cops, you are a suspect of some crime, or crimes, trying to duck recognition. But one thing you can't duck, and they know this, are your fingerprints. Hence, unless you can convince them that you aren't a criminal you are going into the slammer for the night. Now a great help to you is one of two things: 1) keep yourself looking very presentable. Clean clothes, unoffensive odor, decent haircut, blah, blah, blah so that you look like a tourist or suburbanite that just left his ID home, or 2) be such a motherfucking filthy skeksy that you look and smell like human garbage, and would even offend the criminals and the Correctional Officers if they haul your ass to the pen.

I chose route number one. Still, I ended up being arrested on a trump charge of Threatening and Menacing. What the fuck is that? Whatever. I was taken to the slammer and stupid me, I didn't know about AKA's and like an idiot gave them my real name. So now there are two points of connection to a bogus police record, my fingerprints and my name...oh, and my face, because I was photographed too. Whatever.

What am I trying to say? I can let my sickest, most horrible-est side of Hobobob come out and the worst that can be done to me is delete my blog. Oh yeah, that shit would hurt, but like with the loss of my life and my soul already dealt to me, I think I'll get over it. Not that I mean you, my reader, any disrespect, or women in general because sooner or later everyone reading this blog will realize that I am bitter about LIFE and all that it's composed of. Even amoeba are going to experience my vitriol sooner of later (shit, they're in the next post).

I'll let you in on something else. You'd think that they might delete me from Blogger for being outrageous, even if this is just my sick humor and my way of coping with all the pain in my life. But no...they will probably delete me for being a pornographic site. Oh yeah, really. Okay, last post had a lot of women eating cum and sucking dick, but shit, I've also had graphic sex and penises plastered all over these electronic pages too. Why? Because this is an ADULT site, with ADULT content and ADULT ideas, humor and grievances. And since I use graphics to humor-ize or drive points on my blog, well, guess what...there might be some offensive pics now and again. Am I apologizing for this? No, because I'm an adult, and I'm under the supposition that you are too, that's why I have a warning in front of my blog. Clear and concise. So, I'm not intentionally showing or saying anything to children. So I see no point in apologizing for things you will no doubt experience or see normally as an adult (or maybe not so normally).

Okay, my site as porno- graphy. Why am I saying this? Well some BOTS have went around my security and posted pornographic links in my blog. Some of you might ask, "what is a BOT?" Well, they are cute little programs that wander the web and encounter a blog and uses the posting abilities offered to my readers to leave behind links to some site selling porn or Viagra. These programs are very sophisticated and can initiate the comment service of a blog and fill out the comment box, but what they can't do is read that distorted, disconnected group of letters and numbers in the verification system. Now some BOTS have Character Recognition where they can actually read letters and numbers, but to understand them, or make them out, they have to have a definite and recognizable shape. That's why when you see the letters they look like they're underwater. The human mind can make the connection. The computer intelligence cannot.

Well, my primary email inbox forwards every comment made by my readers to my personal email so that I can respond to them as promptly as possible. Recently, up pops two copies of the same rude invitation and a link to a porn site. How was this possible? Can these BOTS now read? Well I haven't read anything like that as being possible among the tech community so far, so my guess is that one of my readers came across one of my posts, saw a picture of a naked man or woman, or whatever, and reported my page as pornographic. Really not a problem, because if that keeps it even harder for kids to get into my blog, the better. My concern is if Blogger makes it easier for pornographic BOTS to post on what they deem pornographic sites.

My site is not Pornographic. Adult? Yes. Pornographic? No. Do I think Blogger will demand that adult or even pornographic blogs end in their playground on the Internet? Hell no. Why do I say this? Well, I am indeed an Internet-freak. Sometimes the World Wide Web servers are not enough to keep my miserable life livable. So I troll the IRC servers. What are they, you ask? Well the Internet was a more character driven vehicle than graphical. Okay, for you slower ones: Words, not pictures. A college genius, Marc Andreeson created the Web Browser called Mosaic that took the data being passed on certain types of servers, WWW servers, and enabled them to run new code, graphical code, and pictures were born on the Web. As this technology flew off the shelves making Marc a multi-millionaire and founder of the amazing company Netscape, the nefarious, criminal and completely unoriginal dark side of computing: Microsoft, and it's Dark Lord, Bill Gates, quickly copied the program, attached it to his operating system and put such an incredible innovator the likes of Marc out of business and toppling his company. Once again, business anal raping progress.

Now, in 2010 the Internet is so evolved that even code containing television, movies, radio and the so forth are being carried over WWW servers. Soon, they'll probably have physical sex delivered by your fucking Web browser. Okay, that's enough history. There are now the sophisticated WWW servers on the Internet and the less sophisticated, more virginal, more pure and non-commercial servers out there called IRC servers. Internet Relay Chat servers that only deliver character driven content, like the pristine Internet once did. The beauty of IRC is that there are trillions of them on the Internet...well, that's because they are Internet servers too. And they're all around the world, connecting computers into a mind boggling communications network where you can type in real time to anyone on the planet at anytime.

Consider it like Yahoo Instant Messenger on steroids, amphet- amines and crack. This immense construct is divided into chat rooms with specific topics. This untamed frontier of the Internet is where when you hear that pedophiles, terrorism or racism is online, this is where they most definitely are. Why? Because its impossible to trace the IP address in IRC if you are clever. Or maybe even dimly aware. So all of you people who wondered how can a website promoting and planning terrorism can exist when all the Federal government has to do is surf there and get its information have got it all wrong. It's not a Website...its an IRC chat room (although there are dumb assed websites).

IRC chat rooms can appear and disappear like a will-o-the-wisp. Move about enormous distances like flashes of lightning in the skies. Morph and change like a chameleon on a television screen. This is where THE most scariest and dangerous parts of the Internet actually lie. And yes, you don't have to guess...this is my merry motherfucking playground at times when I feel corrupt. Kind of the Red Light District where I prostitute myself for free, just to feel filthy. Well, I tend to frequent an adult chat room that is unafraid of addressing adult topics and issues (although, I also frequent a bondage and submission, and a drug use chat room...along with other darker ones that will remain unmentionable). One of my buddies in the chat room, I won't mention his name, is a Blogmaster. For the slower ones: He has a blog. In fact, the blog is on Blogger.

This blog of his is actually a library where you can go to and move up and down categorized posts connecting you to FTP servers on the Internet (File Transfer Protocol, yes another brand of server on the massive network called the Internet that makes it possible to download stuff. You people deluded by browsers use them but don't know of them) which then downloads fucking movies containing gonzo porn. Yep, his blog is pornographic. Further, he is in competition with other Blogs doing the same. Commercialism at its best. So why do I say that I'm not actually concerned that Blogger may delete my blog for being mistaken as being pornographic? Because there are REAL, hardcore pornographic blogs out there. I'm sure they'll weed them out before they get to me.

Okay...really, the entire purpose of this post is not to educate you about the inner workings of the Internet, but rather to express myself by giving you my three resolutions:

1) If you are a kid under 18...GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!! No, I mean that shit! Well, I'm not deluded. I know that you 16 and on up year olds are probably fucking like your life depended on it. Also you probably have already developed new sexual positions and acts for our future generations. So I'm excluding you, I suppose. But you virgin youths out there...get the fuck outta here.

2) In respect to the 166 new readers that hit me yesterday alone (Geezus! My stat counter is flying through the roof again!) I don't mean to offend any of my readers (except maybe tourists). Understand that I am angry, mentally ill, destitute, and still fat. These are not good combinations in anyone. I could get on this blog and cry like a big baby, bitch like a....uh, bitch like a...uh, well a LITTLE BITCH, or even worst of all, become some activist and try to do something about society. No, I'd rather find the blackest humor in things, the sickest fun, the asshole of ridiculous and post it here. Beats crying, right? This is my humor. Brutal, I know, but harmless.

3) To my faithful readers, you all know me by now. Peace and love.

Well, to everyone, take care. Live in the moment, because life will change all of your plans, hopes and fears in an instant. Take my word for it.

Now let me go and make myself a bowl of cereal and lettuce.

Hobobob