Friday, October 11, 2002
Too much dramarama this morning. I don't know why I let myself get so worked up. You really should have read the Chuck Woolery version. Maybe next time someone fucks with me I will put up the chuck woolery version. I mean Chuck Woolery's been going with it for years, and look at him, he's fuckin famous. He is big time huge and hugely big-time. In fact, I think I saw that guy that I always confuse him with and Ben Stein doing game show bloopers the other day. Now THAT is fuckin big-time. When the guy that bites you and makes a career out of it is the idol of millions, well think about it, you must have a giant bathtub.
So. Well. Uh-huh. What are you trying to say alfred? I'm trying to say that time is running out on this day and I don't want visitors over the 3-day weekend to see on their first impression me going off like a fire hydrant. Fire hydrants are fun for summer play in the streets of brooklyn, but when they spit fire and brimstone and every other word is one that santa docks you toys for, then that kine is no good.
Shabba shabba shabba shabba. This is probably the worst day of blogging I have ever done. I'm almost thinking about revoking my own backstage blogger pass. If you're not from the blogosphere, don't come around the blogosphere, cuz you wouldn't understand the blogosphere. Stay the fuck out of the blogosphere. (swooshing sound of a baseball bat swinging)
I seriously had on my spiked collar and leather jacket this morning and I was ready to rumble like Frank Stallone. I mean, dang, there was a lot of hardcore, very serious elements, to my ensemble. I had thrown my patent leather gucci shoes up against the wall in a rage and my bowtie was crooked. If you hear, then you know. If you know then you tell. If you tell then you're dead. If you're dead then your bmw key chain is mine, all mine, all mine.