Snooty’s Magical World of Omega 3 Capsules

Oh man, I take olives like butter on the back of a warm slice of bread. They sizzle and glob in a pan like little lobes of dropped cotton, flowering with slippery pulp, mashed into a fine, inky mush.

Olive spread over my chicken, coated and convalescent, olefactory delight, and yet healthy.

Healthy. Healthy. Healthy.

No prescriptive medication, no diagnosis, no pharmaceutical overload. Just natural, pure olive, plucked and squished and pressed into my chicken. I love it. Almost as much as I love omega 3 supplements.

This is the true path to life extension. Believe it.

All three?! Nobody gets all three. I just won’t believe it. I’ve met many healthy and wise people. I’ve met many wealthy wise people. And I’ve even met some healthy, wealthy people. But I’ve NEVER met a healthy, wealthy, and wise person.

There might possibly be one or two. Like a triple crown winner. Occasionally there’s a horse who just might be fast enough and strong enough to win all three. But even then another horse comes by and steals away the shot at a triple crown. Just look at Smarty Jones, Philly’s own prize filly. Best horse in twenty years and it still couldn’t win all three races. Sorry Charlie, at best you only get two.

So, which two would you rather have? It’s a tricky decision. Personally, I’d go with healthy and wise. Wealth comes and goes, you can lose a fortune overnight. What’s more, people don’t necessarily respect you just because you have money, and often they love you even less for it. But healthy? I’d rather be 85 and jogging around mountains than 45 and stuck to a chair with a gluttonous wad of cash.

And the wise thing just goes without saying. I hate to be all Zen, but I think, therefore I am…fucking wise. I like thinking, always have, sometimes I even enjoy thinking more than doing, which really says something about my personality. Heya.

Okay, okay, the wait is up, get yourself some damage control and go on a caveman diet.

After that head on over to this life extension website, and have yourself a blast with the best antioxidant. Good luck, children.

I take coffee like I took omega 3 supplements four months ago. Is that bad? Yeah, yeah, that’s really bad. I know recovering addicts are supposed to avoid any of the usual suspects. That includes any alcohol of any kind at any time. Obviously all uppers, downers, softies, hard packers, and grinders. But it also means no sex, not even dating. It means no gambling. It means no COFFEE, no COFFEEEEEEE. And man did I fall off that bandwagon. I’ve been putting down five, seven, twelve cups a day. They’re small cups, right, that’s my trick, they’re flippin’ dixie cups and when a dixie cup’s all the way full, it’s really only half full because those puppies hold nothing, I couldn’t fit two thumbs inside.

So I have twelve dixie cups of coffee a day. OH, yeah,  I can tell the time of day by the numer of brownish, softened, moist dixie cups lying around my desk. There’s three there right now and one on the floor which means it still must be pretty early in the day. Or early for me, though I don’t know difference and I don’t care.

I’ll be entirely honest, I’m a little buzzed right now. I haven’t stopped typing since I started. Is that the caffeine. Reminds me of my speed days, when I’d do enough to keep me going for 42 hours and I have some foreman’s test or maybe it was community college, and I’d fill out every answer to the entire test on one line. Brilliant stuff as it was coming out, but when I was done it was just one big graphite smear across the top line of the Bluebook right after “Name:” That’s right, my name included all the answers and just so, nobody could read it, probably for the better. They shouldn’t be barging in on my thoughts anyway. Have you ever seen a speed freak with washboard abs? How about a coffee guzzling rehab baby? Yeah, me neither.

So learn about the benefits of vitamins and then go buy vitamin. That’s what I’d do, except I’ve got an important appointment with a perkolator, so it’ll have to wait.

Is a well built or dug? What a lovely name for an archetectural device. It’s a well. Well. Well done. Well being. Wish you well. Wishing well. Well, that’s all folks. I’m well, you’re well, we’re all well for well, well.

Done.

That was really burning my thrusters out, so much well talk, let’s get onto something a touch more serious, yes, you know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the health of my belly. I take a great concern in my belly’s health as it makes up at least 20% of my body, 30% on a bad day. My belly is currently in flux, giving me the skitters, and the jitters, and occasionally even the flitters. It says, “Feed me sasquatch! And steak! Sasquatch steak! And I could use some mushrooms, both magical and otherwise, and don’t forget the heroin!” Sometimes I attribute my belly to all the evil wrought upon my body during my tripping years, but I’m sure my blood did a good deal of damage, and my liver too.

Wow, I just read over this post, and it sucks vibrantly. This is officially my worst post. Usually I’m incoherent, but I like to think of myself as artistically incoherent. This post is just PLAIN incoherrent, no fun at all. Trip to the other side and take up a new sport because this muffin top mayhem is closing down. No abs on a high fat diet this week, nor will I be discussing vitamins online, or the damage control master formula. It’s just one big flash flood mucking the pathways and instilling fear into the suckling babes of the heartland. Dijorno, chow, and feed someone else for a change.

I got this little job south of Portland taking computer maintenence calls. Drab, drab, and sweaty drab. I type at blocktastic infodata eight hours a day and it leaves me crying in my glutan free beverage.

I do the dates more these days, not the lovely times with women but the oversized raisins. My poops are solid and smooth.

I like a good long poop, gives me time to think, yeah, right on the toilet, such a great spot for brain matters. The toilets at my office are an extra 5 inches high, they’ve been adjusted, and that’s heaven cut out of porcelain if you ask me. The fellows at the office–not many of whom I know–come in to pee at the one urinal next to the one stall which I occupy. Everyone has different pee habits, and it surprises me how many have a difficult time just getting the thing to go. Is that what I have to look forward to? Difficult pee times in the future. I think not, I would die before I allowed my pecker to pucker tight. No sir, graham bell, no sir to you.

I love my office bathroom so much, I’ve stopped using the home bathroom altogether. Saves me soap and toilet paper at least, and who can argue against that?

Finally, I dug through people records on orthorexia and found nothing whatsoever. What a waste.

I’ve got this girl staying with me. No hands and feet and night time fun time, just talk and the usual of standard meals and coffees. A decade younger and it shows in both me and her, hell I don’t even remember what a decade ago feels like, but I know it’s a lot stickier. No messier, just stickier, and the heat really counts. She goes up to the rinks on weekends to drop the favorite culprits with her community college droogies. They all smell like the back of a kit-kat wrapper and they cut their own hair.

She’s got this feather she keeps putting in her clothes, like a pin, a three foot long pin. Does she want to be a bird or a British Nancy or is this just one more creative-eclectic-way to prove she’s not frustrated with herself? Been here three weeks and had as many jobs. I don’t know how she gets ‘em, must be easier for the young, they take it and leave at a rate I couldn’t scratch. I keep telling her to call this ‘Joe’ guy she thinks she knows who lives out here in hellville, not because I wan’t her out of my litter box, but mainly because she should be hanging out with better folken than the likes of me and her kit-kat back allie hair pin droogies. She’s got a curl to her lips that tells me she needs a nip of solidarity and the way she talks of Joe, I think he just might give it to her.

I tried my old damage control sales pitch on her the other. Pushing my omega 3 capsules, and my gingko biloba capsules, and all my capsules, like the reform-fuck hippie I cut my hair to be. She won’t have any of it. Says ‘mushrooms is all natural’ can’t kill you. Yeah, bears are all natural too and watch what they’ll do.

I’m giving her 3 weeks. Then I’ll pick up the god damned phone and call Joe myself.

Several different friends offered me a reunion dance with Mary Jane this week. Purple power, so pure it’s right. God wouldn’t refuse this shit, right? That’s how good the mexicans make it, not picked but a week ago, air tight and tighten the lips and suck it down. Man, I walked into  the room and smelled cat and the fresh and sourness of melting ice cream, rocky road, and breath full of hot, dark weed. Swim around in the smoke, Randy! I did, and “I did not inhale,” just wasn’t going to cut it. My friends were passing around the glass glowing wonder of a pipe, jittery with hollow stars and purple stripes, the un-united states forever. Their breath and smiles were too much, so I picked up the cat and rubbed it into my face. The cat was obese, a black devil with a black twin brother lurking somewhere nearby, probably behind a toilet seat. The cat had an erudite name, Calista or Everton or Palis or something, but I deemed him Mr. Bubbles like a good old name from a five year old kid, and I rubbed that cat up and down my cheek and under my china and I would have stuck that thing right down my shirt, feeling claws against my ariolas if my friend hadn’t freaked out…
“Shit! You freak, put down ____. Put her right down and smoke this now.” But I didn’t, I just held on to the cat because you see…..I’m allergic. Senses in my skin began to flash, and redden, and pucker and swell and flare and itch oh yeah itch so much I couldn’t suck enough air into my lungs. And all this choking was a good deal better than sitting around like a cewpie doll waiting for Mary Jane to take me back between her legs and fuck me out of sobriety.

Now, the sound off, three ripe health blogs, of which the first is called health blog, nothing too clever here at uncle Smither’s dope post. I give you orac value and vitamins online to tide you over as well.

How many little rascals can you name?

I can name these: Spanky, Alfalfa….okay, that’s it. But I know there’s plenty more.

I was the age of the average rascal when I watched the little rascals, so my perception wasn’t so clear, but I distinctly remember an episode where spanky and the gang end up at the bottom of some sort of cave looking for pirate treasure and somehow they end up trapped in giant fly paper and a giant–A FUCKING GIANT– comes to eat them or just smash them into rascal mash and maybe create a nice baking alternative to Crisco yeah.

Yeah. So it ends with spanky waking up and the other little rascals are there and they make fun of him. WHAT IS THAT SHIT!!!!!!! How did they know what he was dreaming? They didn’t! But they still make fun of him for what he dreamed–before he goes into detail or says what the fuck was so god damned scary. It’s like they were clairvoyant! So what I’m thinking is either the writers were incredibly bad (very likely), or the writers were fucking artistic geniuses, introducing the thin membrane between our perception and oneiria.

Bah, that’s pretentious bullshit. We all know the little rascals was pumped out a week at a time with no real structure just because moms loved that precocious little fat kid spanky. That’s why I can’t remember the rest of the rascals names, because that Spanky shit hogged all the stage time.

And I guess I only remember Alfalfa because of Eddie Murphey.

So now it’s time for the best antioxidant weblink. If you’re looking for tips on how to relieve stress, check out the link I just linked, it’s linky.

I watched the final season of Sopranos recently and there’s an episode where Tony goes to Vegas and does Peoti. It was hard watching that episode. All the episodes where Christopher falls off the wagon and does blow were easy for me to sit through, most of my memories of the white hurricane are the bad times, the moments where I do really dispicable things. But watching Tony trip through Vegas was hard because my psychadelic times have been some of the best. I would never suggest any psychadelic in the middle of Vegas. You want to be in a calm environment, or at least somewhere you feel comfortable, I don’t particularly feel comfortable amidst thieves, pimps, and drug whores. The episode ends with Tony watching the sunrise. It’s a catharsis, and I’ve been there, I’ve REALLY been there. Can’t say the catharsis is real, or permanent, couldn’t even tell you what I learned during those moments, but those moments were some of the best. So my horrible message to kids is this: Don’t do psychadelics, but if you do, make sure you see the sunrise. And if you don’t go to a vitamin store and find out about omega 3 benefits and one a day multivitamins, they’re better than mushrooms in the long run.

I just couldn’t handle Seattle. Had to get out of that coffee raping town. On the other hand, I can barely handle all the moving,  I really need to settle down, find one space, fill that space with my stuff, my books, my nice chair, and a soft, warm woman.

I think that place is Georgia. I’m not there yet, but by god, I will be before Christmas. First I krept up into Canada to see if Vancouver was really the new Hollywood, and it’s not, no way. Got away from that business as quick as can be and drove all the way down to Frisco in a day. I love the fuck out of San Francisco, and I’m not even gay. yet. It was foggy the whole time which is the best weather. Nothing more beautiful than a dreary red golden gate bridge rising over the top of fog, like there’s no ocean there’s just a never ending fall waiting for anyone who wants it, a bad driver, a tortured artist, or a teen with a protective mother. I don’t include myself as any of those so I stayed away from the bridge, just looking at it was good enough here. Had a couple very sweet opportunities for a very sweet return to the lighter side of the drug candy happy times, but turned them down. Lost a couple friends I didn’t need, and now I’m in L.A. which has been officially labelled by me and all the like as the worst place for a former drug user to be. Wish me luck, it’s gonna be a couple hard weeks in a hard down with glossy edges. I wish I didn’t love this place quite so much. I’ve still been popping pills–the good kind– vitamins and supplements and herbal shit. I’ll try anything so long as I don’t have to shove it up my ass to make it work.  Vitamins sure help on the how to deal with stress front, those omega 3 benefits are killer good for my wretched, used body. Until next week children, go do some smack and blame your parents.