Wednesday, November 13, 2002

yo yo yo and a bottle a brass monkey, and when I hit the slopes well you know I gets funky. Um, or, uh, something like that, but it all depends on the size of the gat. Gyeah. Today I feel like babbling like babylon so if babwa wawa in the chacha ain't your thang, you might want to change channels, dawg.

Oh just to break up the fount of nonsense for um one second, you really should head over to hosemonster-ville cuz he blessed us with part 2 of his Nohr story, something I have been waiting for for a few months now. Isn't it weird in a sentence when you have "for for" and you look back at it, and it looks weird, but it's right, so you're like, wow, that is not a problem. Don't even get me started, I could go on for days on end, and I just might, and well, what can you do? It's my blog, I run the show, and like Andrew Dice Clay says on his "The day the Laughter died" album, "I'll probably be the only one left in this fukn room when the show's over." He goes on to say, that this show ain't about jokes, he don't do no nursery rhymes in that show, and I don't give the audience what they want, I give you what you NEED. Two very different things. You may not know that what I'm giving you is what you secretly need, so sit back and read and digest and no goddamm interruption ferchrissake.

So where the hell was I? Oh yeah, justifying crappy and incoherent writing. I feel that by justifying horse manure, there will be a solid communication between I the genius author and you my reader(s). Now by genius please understand that I mean idiot. And by idiot I don't mean idiot savant I mean dumbass, as in total and complete moron, as in utter and extreme nincompoop, as in he who knows nothing yet speaks volumes.

Therefore and forthwith I shall extend to you, my audience, who I heartily appreciate and dare I say stalk like a cheetah after a baby vulture (?) that if you understand that, then there is little left to comprehend and your grade for the day is B+ in ultrablognetic 101.

Class dismissed.

PS: I rang the bell. I rang the bell. I rang the mothafricken gasoline wanking g-style clackafrackin bell. The bell, the bell, the fricken fracken bicken backen bell.

PPS: the invoice goes to Lodi, CA. I love Lodi even though I've never been there because it brings to mind that CCR song, "Stuck in old Lodi, again" "If I only had a dollar, for every song I sung, every time I sat there playing, while people sat there drunk, you know I'd catch the next train, back to where I'd been, oh Lord, stuck in old Lodi, again."

Has anyone actually been to Lodi? What is it like? I'd ask my customer this, but I don't know, I don't want to offend him and stem off the cash flow, 'na mean? So like, all my Lodi peeps, gimme the 411.